The Pianist and I
by laperlenoire
Summary: Sometimes, we cannot let a mistake from the past determine who we are. Sometimes, we need to move forward from our pain to be our best selves for someone else.


**A/N:** This is a story I consider dear to my heart, because it reflects personal struggle and how people can overcome it with the right support and love from the people around them. Perhaps not a story often written, especially in this age where emotional health is just being recognized, but that doesn't mean more shouldn't be written. I hope you enjoy it :)

 **Warning:** Quite philosophical, may cause emotional triggers.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Man in any way or form.

* * *

Discovering a passion had long since been a goal for everyone. Passion, as in a hobby to turn to at the end of the day when stress from work, school, and life fades away into the past, and we all need something special to warm the worn-out soul. Passion, humanity's breath of life, yet often the most difficult to seek.

Allen had always considered playing the piano his passion. When he first started lessons at eight years of age his teacher and parents were amazed by how quickly he learned the material, how easily performing came to him, and they fervently encouraged him to build upon that talent. One hour of lessons every week, practicing his pieces for hours every day, Allen trained to become the professional pianist of his dreams.

And no one was ever disappointed. Allen's performances for his teacher always met with great praise, which was often relayed to his parents as well, and Allen was confident in his abilities. Even after his teacher entered him in a piano competition, known for its prestige and especially harsh judges, Allen approached the event with enthusiasm and continued practicing all day long.

If only he realized how critical these judges were. They did not mess around, give you pats on the back for mustering up the courage to perform in front of an audience. No, with one step into the enormous and empty auditorium, the seven panelists observed every movement, every speck of dirt on the tuxedo. They watched his posture, the way he placed his hands, and once he commenced, all attention was on the tiniest of flaws in the music.

By the end of the performance Allen's heart swelled with happiness and he enthusiastically bowed to the judges, confident in the music he played. But he received not a peep of praise. He looked up, and was shocked by how…bored they seemed. With blank faces, they gestured to one another, scuffling papers, and one of them seemed to just realize he had other company in the room. The judge spared Allen a brief glance and said, "Thank you for your time. You are free to go now."

Allen did not think much of their reaction, assuming they were just cold like most judges were, but the day he received the results of the competition was perhaps the worst of his life. Not a single place he won, and the judges' commentary nearly tore him apart. _Technique was very muddy, not impressive. Dynamics could have been much more expressive during the second sections, and left-right hand coordination poorly executed. Music, overall, was just not there._

Suddenly Allen's perception of his "passion" shattered like an unsteady vase. What did he have now? For so long he worked for the approval of the professionals—for so long he believed in himself, in abilities he thought existed, that this slap in the face broke any confidence he had.

His teacher attempted to console him, but the painful truth already ingrained itself in Allen's head: he just did not have the musical ability in him, and damn himself for ever thinking he did.

His parents continued to pay for music lessons, and Allen chose to follow their wishes. Sitting on that piano bench, however, became unbearable. No longer did he have the motivation to look at the sheet music, to play the pieces that, honestly, did he truly enjoy playing? At this point he did not know. It was only his parents' investment that kept him trudging to class every week, and in the blink of an eye Allen's passion turned to nothing.

* * *

It was lunchtime, and as he often did after eating, Allen strolled through the hallways of his high school to explore the campus while allowing his food to digest. A lonely endeavor, for sure, but he appreciated his alone-time as much as he appreciated having good food to eat after intensive studies.

He changed his route frequently, and today found himself in the music department. Music theory, band room, he noted the labels by each classroom. The voices of the choir echoed through the walls, a sound he found rather pleasant, as well as the jazz music that wafted into the hallway. All the doors down the hall were closed, except for one at the end. There was darkness behind it, and curiosity got the better of him.

Hesitantly he opened the door further, and switched on the lights. It was the piano room. A single grand piano was posed on the far left side of the room, and rows of at least fifty chairs were set up evenly on the opposite end. The piano bench and keyboard were situated facing the chairs so that the audience, if present, would watch the back of the pianist.

It was a vacant room, yet there was a powerful surge of energy in it. The piano, the music it generated in past occasions, the room reeked of their presence. Being there brought Allen back to his own associations with the piano. The distaste of being forced onto that seat, the futile attempts to motivate himself only to be overpowered by despair. He didn't want his relationship with the music instrument to be that way. He treasured the music that floated from its intertwined strings and hollow build, and he knew they had better memories together. But that all seemed so meaningless now. Standing a mere four feet from the instrument, the barrier in between was greater than any forest.

Allen turned to leave, but an itch in the back of his mind stopped him. The instrument he used to love was calling out to him. It was not begging him for attention or forgiveness, trying to make amends for the past, but from the soft hesitance in its voice, the way it placed a consoling hand on his shoulder, the more he felt they needed a final, peaceful reunion before they parted forever. And Allen agreed to do just that.

Walking over to the piano, Allen removed his backpack and leaned it against the leg of the piano bench, before taking a seat on the black cushion and adjusting it to his comfort. He lifted up the cover, and quickly dusted the keys with a cloth. Once he placed the cloth aside, however, and he gazed upon the keys, hesitance overtook him. The foreign keys never met him before. They never witnessed how he performed or who he was as a pianist, but Allen was afraid nonetheless. Shaking his head, he vanquished the feeling, and proceeded to play a piece he cherished with all his heart.

The piece started off well. The elegant introduction was executed perfectly, and the next thing he knew he was riding the music he played. During that gracious moment his heart expanded, his spirit stretched its wings and flew, and he thought that perhaps, he could do it again. He could reconcile with his pianist spirit and revive the happiness. Be at peace once again.

But then his finger slipped, and a wrong note echoed throughout the room. Allen's sensitivity spiked, and suddenly everything just seemed to go wrong. _The left hand notes were not emphasized enough. Hand coordination sounded off. I did not bring out the dynamics enough._ And with his heightened dread came the bad memories. Past failures, past embarrassments, anger, and hatred, all resurfaced one after another. His hands continued to play steadily, but internally his emotions grew out of whack. No longer was he in-tune with the music, and no longer did the reconciliation last. By the conclusion of the piece, the final notes resonated throughout the stillness of the chamber, but within the echo Allen could only hear his own disappointment.

He lifted his hands, placing them by his side, and sighed. _No longer did the reconciliation last_. What was he thinking, hoping he would somehow get rid of his insecurity and be happy?

Allen turned to pick up his backpack, when applause rang from the doorway. He immediately turned towards the sound, and was startled to find a complete stranger leaning against the doorway. The stranger was a fellow student, as Allen could tell from the backpack slung over his shoulder, and was probably about his age or older. He had olive tan skin, dark hair tied up in a short ponytail, and he watched him with the serious intent of an audience. A spectator. Allen reddened profusely. _Oh God, he heard it. He heard it all_. Suddenly he didn't want to be there anymore. Not in front of this person.

"That was a beautiful piece you just played," the dark-haired student said.

Allen's denial could flood Noah's Ark. "Thank you..." He laughed nervously. "But I don't really deserve such praise."

The student laughed lightheartedly, unaware of the embarrassment he caused his fellow peer. "Of course you do. I think you need to give yourself a little more credit."

Repeatedly Allen shook his head. "No. No, no. It was bad, and I'm sorry you had to hear it." With shaking hands he picked up his backpack and rushed across the room towards the doorway.

The student paused and he stepped back. "W-wait. Did I say something wrong?"

"No. You didn't. Thank you for listening." And with that Allen walked out the room without the slightest glance at the student as he passed.

* * *

How Allen wanted to cry. To somehow purge the embarrassment, because he truly could not understand why he was feeling this way. It was a nice compliment. It sounded genuine, sincere, and he clearly meant no harm. But _no_ , at the same time it did not seem that way to him.

He never should have gone back. He never should have considered the idea that playing the piano could have been a passion, or that it would bear fruit into something that would impress people. Because clearly no one could ever appreciate his horrible performances. What's there to appreciate? All he made was mistakes and mistakes and more mistakes. And to think that stranger would say something so nice to him...

Even though he did not deserve it...

Allen fell onto his bed and lay there, staring across the room at nothing at all. The room was nice and neat, nothing out of place to catch his eye, and he sighed to himself. If only internally he was that simple. Not needing to worry about everything, being excessively concerned about what others thought, feeling depressed over the little things...Life would be much simpler.

But no, this was who he was. And he refused to be miserable like this for the rest of his life.

Allen's gaze landed on his precious stereo, his only source of comfort, resting on his bedside table. It was special to him, because it somehow spoke his language. The music he played was often soft ballads, which could easily tear a sentimental person to shreds, but it was different for him. For him, the sorrowful melodies stirred his restless emotions, breaking him down even more, before it would work its magic. All the fragments of his spirit, the beautiful music would slowly mend them together, and as if enchanted by the spell of the Muses, Allen would feel whole again, a bit more clear-minded and understanding of himself.

He pushed himself onto his elbow and leaned forward, pressing the _play_ button on the stereo. After a few seconds of whirring machinery, the music began, and Allen lay back on the bed, allowing the melodies to ease his conflicted heart.

* * *

The next day Allen definitely felt much better. After a good night's sleep to calm his restless spirit, he was more comfortable thinking about yesterday's events, and immediately he wanted to apologize to the student for his overreaction. More likely than not, his words were sincere. And if there was one thing Allen needed to do other than apologize, it was to thank him for his compliment.

After eating lunch he went down the same hallway to that same door, and upon reaching the chamber he was surprised to hear jubilant music from within. He pushed open the door wider, which was already ajar, and peered into the room.

There was the student with the dark, curly hair, seated rather comfortably by the piano and banging out a jolly rendition of Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer." It was a lovely sound, and it made Allen's heart dance. Leaning against the door, he watched the hands leaping across the keyboard, playing the octaves with the jubilation of an Irish jig, and Allen smiled at the performer's energy. How happy he looked, almost as if he was dancing in his seat. If only Allen could enjoy playing the piano just as much...

When the pianist finished, it was Allen's turn to applause.

"Bravissimo, bravissimo!"

The student turned to him in surprise. He gave him a good look, but once he recognized him he flashed him a small smile. "Hey, you're back." He made a mock-bow from his seat. "Glad you enjoyed the performance," he said.

Allen grasped his backpack strap a little tighter, and approached him slowly. "I...just wanted to say sorry for being so rude yesterday. I didn't mean to dismiss your compliment like that..."

The student smiled warmly and shook his head. "It's okay. I was a bit surprised because I never had that reaction before. But it's fine, really."

Allen pursed his lips, still slightly ashamed, but he appreciated the latter's cool attitude. Urged to make further amends, he stretched out his hand. "Allen."

"Mikk." Mikk clasped the hand firmly. Turning back to the piano, he proceeded to play the same song.

Allen remained silent, keeping watch on the dancing fingers. "You play so well..."

Mikk smirked. "Not as well as trained professionals, but I like it all the same."

"You don't take private lessons?"

"No. I taught myself, using online videos and some workbooks. It's not easy, but I think I conquered enough techniques to play most songs I'm interested in."

"That's...really good." Allen fell into silence again and watched the pianist thoughtfully. There was something contagious about the way he played. A sort of excitement that overrode any fear, anxiety, pressure...In Allen a dormant desire seemed to peek its curious nose out of the snow. "I kind of want to learn that piece. Can I play a bit?"

"Sure."

Mikk stood up, allowing Allen to take his place, and the latter made himself comfortable on the seat. He examined the sheet music propped on the stand, addressing any particular patterns, before he positioned his fingers in correspondence to the first notes, and played through slowly. Allen found it quite a struggle, trying to match the notes perfectly, and he winced at every sour note. He trudged through the sheet music, clumsily shifted from chord to chord, and was mentally exhausted by the time he reached halfway through the first page.

He certainly was so focused he did not notice Mikk next to him observing him closely.

"Hey..." Mikk gently placed two fingers between Allen's brows. "Your eyebrows are all scrunched up. Are you stressed?"

Allen paused and rubbed the area addressed. "A little..."

The latter chuckled. "Relax a bit. Shake out your hands and just play. Mess it up, make mistakes, screw around. You can fix it later, but for now just have a little fun." As if demonstrating, on the higher end of the piano he played the song carelessly, messily, but, just as he preached, still having fun as ever.

"That was awful," Allen said when he stopped.

"Got to get the feel of the music first before you perfect it, that's what I usually do." Then Mikk's eyes brightened. "Hey, I have an idea. You play the left hand while I do the right."

Allen looked at the sheet music and cringed at the complex combination of notes. "That's impossible."

"That's where all the fun is—because when you take risks you don't always have to think about it." He sat down next to Allen on the bench. "You ready?"

"No."

"You start, I'll follow."

What a disaster it was at the beginning. Both hands lost coordination in the very first line, and Allen could not help but laugh at the way their fingers tripped and the whole song fell apart.

"Okay," his companion said, struggling to control his own laughter, "we're doing that again."

So they tried again, and again and again. Allen's stomach ached from futile attempts to hold back his laughter, and at one point he was forced to stop because of a sudden outburst of uncontrollable giggling.

Mikk stopped as well, visibly biting his lower lip. "Oh my God, stop. I cannot focus if you keep making me laugh," he scolded with a hint of a smile.

Allen slapped his arm with the back of his hand. "Just do it again." He shot him a cheeky grin.

And somehow they made it through half of the song, even with the sudden urges to laugh, the constant tripping, and the struggle to stay coordinated. Allen had to admit, this was the happiest he had been in a while, and he relished the feeling for the rest of the lunch period.

When the bell rang, he was almost sorry to stop and leave the room.

"Oh, that was the bell," Mikk said, eyes pointed towards the telecom through which the bell projected its obnoxious sound to the students. He leaned to pick up his backpack. "We should go to class now."

"Sure." Allen did the same, and by the time he was crossing the room Mikk had already reached the doorway. A thought snapped in him and he rushed to his new acquaintance, stopping him before he could disappear with a hand on his arm. Mikk turned to him with a questioning look.

Allen was silent, slightly intimidated by the expectation in Mikk's eyes. He had never taken such initiative before towards other people, moreover considered saying such private words to someone he just met. But, much like he took a chance with reviving his pianist spirit, he needed to take a chance and, for once, express himself. Express connections with other people in hopes that perhaps, they could further strengthen the relationship. With a surge of confidence, Allen met Mikk's gaze. "We should do that again. I…I had fun."

Mikk was silent a moment, before he gave him a warm smile. "I'm glad."

* * *

Since then, every day during lunch Allen and Mikk would meet in the piano room to play together, goof around, do whatever it took to take their individual stresses off their mind. So many different songs they played together—some more Scott Joplin with which to practice their left-right hand coordination (though they most often butchered the song), some of their personal favorites, and, for the sake of actually playing a song that had musicality, their favorite duets. Other times Allen would just stand by and watch Mikk's fingers dance across the keyboard, jamming to a fun piece or gliding through a romantic serenade, or just sit next to him with eyes closed, hearing only the song of the piano's heartstrings.

Allen loved being with his new friend. He found great comfort in his easy-going attitude, his lack of judgment, his friendly expressions and sense of humor, but what he appreciated most was his passion. Pure passion for the piano that stemmed from love of music, desire from within the heart for self-expression. And the more Allen allowed his fingers to dance across the keyboard, hearing not the criticism of strict professionals but the warm laughter of an enthusiastic teenager, the more he felt the delight in creating his own beautiful sounds. Slowly, but surely, he grew to understand how to play from the heart. No matter how cheesy that sounds.

Allen, however, still did not have the courage to play for his friend. Not during a duet, with two pairs of hands on the piano, but him alone, vulnerable in the spotlight. Never while Allen sat with his eyes closed listening to Mike's music did he ever consider reversing their roles. He was not ready to face the probability that Mike's encouragement would dissipate, and that he would soon become like everyone else—expecting something good out of him, just to be disappointed.

As Allen would so often tell himself, he was not ready for it. And he did not think he ever would be.

* * *

One day Allen was playing freely in the piano room while waiting for Mikk. Usually Mikk would be there earlier, but Allen figured he was just busy and kept on playing.

It took a few more minutes before the familiar creak of the door sounded behind him, indicating Mikk's entrance, but there was further silence afterwards. Allen stopped and turned to greet his companion, only to see him with a very sullen face, trudging to the row of seats before planting himself on one of them. He weakly returned the greeting.

Allen turned fully to face him. "You okay?"

Mike shook his head. "No...not really. Something bad just came up and I'm a bit tired."

"You want to talk about it?"

"No..." He leaned his head back and sighed. "I just want you to play for me."

Anxiety resurfaced at the words, but Allen covered it with a small laugh. "Mikk, that kind of request—"

"Please. That is all I need right now." Mikk closed his eyes. "All I need are the birds chirping in the trees and flying through baby blue skies."

Allen bit his lip and turned back to the keyboard. What a predicament he was in. He knew, he knew Mikk would one day ask him to play for him but Allen had planned in response to laugh it off and, through his witty ways, make sure Mike does not get off the bench. But he did not expect him to ask like this…

No matter how he tried to find an escape, though, Allen's sympathy (and perhaps a sense of obligation) won over. After all Mikk had done for him, the least Allen could do was return the favor. If not to satisfy Mikk, then to express that he cared very much for his friend.

So Allen searched within himself for a song that he considered most dear to him, and thought of Claude Debussy's "Rêverie," a piece that he had begun practicing a while ago and felt most confident with. It was a difficult piece, and he conquered it with pride and determination—but whether Mike would like it, he was not sure. He just hoped for the best.

Allen commenced with the delicate introduction, which was one of the easier parts, so it flowed flawlessly. His heart swelled with relief, before drumming with anticipation for the trickier parts he stubbornly practiced over and over again. He could make it, he thought, and the music was flowing well…until his finger tripped on that same exact note. How he cringed at the sour note that rang throughout the room. His past habits slowly kicked in—anxiety at the mistake, fear of losing his audience, worrying worrying worrying.

Allen nearly gave up again— _no, I cannot do this_ —but then new memories appeared. He remembered the young man sitting behind him who showed him how to love playing music, how to find joy in what was originally a chore, and his fear was replaced with the warmth he felt when practicing this song for himself. His heart flew with the whole song, and for his friend, he would do the same for him.

Allen continued the piece with a burden lifted from his shoulders. The piece, now more than black ink written on paper, transcended from its sheet music stand and sang through the piano's hollow body. His hands had a spirit of their own, skipping across white and black keys with the elegance of a waltz, and in the music Allen felt as if in a dream, striving to achieve his greatest aspirations, and as he played this song he imagined he was doing just so.

With the last notes of the piece resonating through the room, Allen heard content echoing off those walls, and he lifted his hands.

Allen placed his hands by his side, waiting for a response from his audience, and received none. His hands tensed. He feared the worst, not wanting to turn around and see for himself, and the silence lingered on.

Then he jumped as he heard footsteps scuffling across the carpet towards him. Mikk must want to slap him for the horrible music or something. Maybe throw him off the chair. Scold him harshly.

But none of that came. A gentle hand rested on Allen's shoulder, and when he turned to look, his gaze met Mikk's solemn one. Neither spoke a word. Allen's eyes never wavered, even when Mikk stretched out a hand to touch one side of the pianist's face, softly stroking his cheek with his thumb, and leaned forward to kiss him on the lip. Only then did Allen close his eyes and sink into Mikk's warm embrace.

It was a while before they separated, with Allen still in a daze.

"Mikk..."

"You have always been a beautiful pianist, you just never knew it."

Then Mike collapsed onto the bench, holding onto his embrace, and rested his weary head on Allen's shoulder. Allen wrapped his arms around his lower back and, leaning onto the other, gently caressed the toned muscles. The latter sighed, and in that little moment in time they held each other, with the only sounds their even breathing and the steady ticking of the clock.

This, Allen realized, is how music heals a person's heart.


End file.
